


I'm Not Going To Be The Fun One

by jooliewrites



Series: Coliver & Addie Verse [2]
Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Dogs, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Kid Fic, Little bit of:, M/M, Married Coliver, Past Dog Attack, Pets, Protective Connor, References To:, pet adoption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:41:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3543125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooliewrites/pseuds/jooliewrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The journey of the Hampton-Walsh household adopting a dog had started out innocently enough. Sites about dog adoption and local shelters were left open on Oliver’s tablet and books about puppies and dog tricks made it into Addie’s library bag too often for it to be considered a coincidence. Oliver kept mentioning news articles he’d seen about how dog owners tend to have less stress and how pet ownership is really good for only children. Addie talked incessantly at dinner about the puppy her friend Rosina received for her birthday and left PetSmart fliers all over the house with all the dogs circled in blue, sparkly ink. And Connor, for his part, had largely ignored all of the oh-so-subtle hints being thrown by his family.</p>
<p>Until one night, as they’re getting ready for bed, Oliver asks him, point blank, “What do you think about us getting a dog?”</p>
<p>+</p>
<p>Future Coliver with Addie adopt a dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Not Going To Be The Fun One

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill originally posted to tumlbr for: "Prompt fill (this one’s a twofer!): Domestic!Coliver gets a dog & More Addie with Connor worrying he’s messing things up and Oliver being supportive."
> 
> Hope you enjoy,  
> -Jules xoxo

And this, Connor thinks as he drags himself out of bed at three in the morning, is exactly why he hadn’t wanted to get a dog. The mutt has been home less than 24-hours and is already messing up his routine.

He reaches down to absentmindedly pet the monster half-whining, half-crying at the end of their bed, and grabs a sweatshirt off the top of the laundry basket before shooing the beast into the hall and down the stairs. At the back door, Connor tugs on the sweatshirt and slips his feet into a pair of nearby boots before flicking on the back light, sliding open the door, and following the dog outside. He stands on the end of the deck for a little while, breathing in the cool, night air, before the dog starts whining again from his perch on the bottom porch step. The light casts a gentle glow over the deck that doesn’t extent to the small yard beyond and the dog looks up at Connor, clearly afraid to venture out into unknown territory in the dark.

“For the love of—” Connor mutters to himself before heading down the steps. “Alright, fine. Follow me.” He still has to coax the dog down off the porch but, once he’s onto the grass, the dog cautiously starts exploring the backyard and Connor makes his way over to Addie’s play set to sit on a swing. The seat of the swing digs into his hips a little, clearly not designed to hold fully-grown men, but the chain holds and he lazily rocks back and forth, watching the dog sniff around their flowerbeds.

The journey of the Hampton-Walsh household adopting a dog had started out innocently enough. Sites about dog adoption and local shelters were left open on Oliver’s tablet and books about puppies and dog tricks made it into Addie’s library bag too often for it to be considered a coincidence. Oliver kept mentioning news articles he’d seen about how dog owners tend to have less stress and how pet ownership is really good for only children. Addie talked incessantly at dinner about the puppy her friend Rosina received for her birthday and left PetSmart fliers all over the house with all the dogs circled in blue, sparkly ink. And Connor, for his part, had largely ignored all of the oh-so-subtle hints being thrown by his family.

Until one night, as they’re getting ready for bed, Oliver asks him, point blank, “What do you think about us getting a dog?”

“What?” Connor responds around a mouth full of toothpaste. He rises out his mouth and swishes around some mouthwash, buying himself a few seconds, before he spits it out and rinses out the sink. “Where is this coming from?”

“Please.” Oliver just rolls his eyes. “You aren’t that oblivious and Addie and I have been less than subtle. What do you think?”

“I haven’t thought about it.”

“Bullshit.”

“Oliver.” Annoyed now, Connor drags a washcloth over his face and then whips it into the basket in the corner. “I don’t really know, okay. They’re a lot of work and I don’t know if we’re ready and Adds is still young. And —and I just don’t know.”

“Well, can you at least start thinking about it?” Oliver pops into their bedroom for a moment and then returns to the bathroom and hands a paper to Connor. “Because this is what our daughter is drawing in school.”

Connor looks down and it’s one of Addie’s stick figure masterpieces. It’s the three of them next to their house with the big maple and play set in the back. Next to Oliver, at least what Connor assumes is supposed to be Oliver with the two large circles for glasses on the stick man’s head, is a fourth figure thing that almost looks like another person but is much smaller than the rest of them. “What is that?” Connor asks, pointing to the smaller figure.

“That’s Waldo.” Oliver leans against the countertop and crosses his arms. “Ms. Nina asked Addie who that was and Adds said it was Waldo and he was new to our family. Nina congratulated us adopting another child when I picked Adds up today.”

“What? Who’s Waldo?” Why was their daughter drawing strangers into her pictures?

“I asked Addie and she said Waldo was our dog.”

“We have a dog named _Waldo_?” Connor looks up from the picture in disbelief.

“Apparently,” Oliver shrugs.

Connor looks back down at the picture. “Where did the ‘Waldo’ come from?”

“The character. You know, _Where’s Waldo?_ ”

Connor nods at that. Addie loves those find-and-seek books Oliver’s mother keeps sending her. They’re still too old for her, and Addie almost never actually finds anything, but she enjoys the busyness and riot of colors and usually cons one of them into finding that striped bastard for her. “Ms. Nina actually thought we adopted a kid and were cruel enough to name him Waldo.”

Oliver holds a hand up and with a shrug, “She teaches private preschool in Center City. It’s probably not the weirdest name she’s ever heard.” Connor nods in concession and they’re silent for a beat. “Look,” Oliver cautiously begins. “I’m not trying to pressure you or anything, and I won’t bring up adopting a dog again if you really don’t want one, but we have to talk to her about this. From what I got out of our conversation today, Addie thinks she’s getting a dog.”

“Why does she think she’s getting a dog?” Connor looks up. “Have you been talking with her about this or something?”

“Yes, Connor. I conspired with our child to pull a fast one over on you,” Oliver says with false sincerity. “No, I didn’t say anything to her. I wouldn’t say anything to her before we decided something. Give me a little credit.” Connor gives a quick “Sorry” that Oliver brushes it off with an “It’s fine” before continuing with his original point. “It’s that her birthday’s coming up. Rosina got a puppy for her birthday and so Addie thinks she’s getting one for her birthday too.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Connor says, sarcastically; the logic of their daughter always astounds him. Then, in a more somber tone, “It’s not that I don’t want a dog. It’s just—” He had just hoped that they would be able to avoid this conversation, if not forever, then for at least a little while longer.

When Connor doesn’t continue his train of thought, Oliver gently asks, “Can we at least explain to her that we’re thinking about it? I mean, if you’re leaning towards no, we should just tell her no. But if you are open to considering it, then maybe we can explain to her that we’re thinking about it and talk about—I don’t know—how dogs are a lot of work and a big responsibility and all that crap and we can get her off this for a while.”

In the end, that’s what they do. They come together have a family discussion with Addie about pets and responsibility and reasonable expectations for birthday presents. Oliver explains in that patient, understanding way of his that “Daddy and Papa are talking about it but we aren’t getting a dog right now.” The entire time, Addie looks at her hands balled in her lap and swings her feet back and forth in her chair. It’s what she does when she’s in trouble and Connor feels like an asshole for the entire conversation. At the end of it, Addie nods that she understands she’s not getting a puppy now and asks in a quiet voice if she can go to her room. A little while later, they peek into check on her and she’s aimlessly flipping through a book with every stuffed dog she owns heaped around her and Connor feels like the worst father ever.

Despite the fact that he feels like shit about it, the conversation actually seems to do the trick. Oliver, true to his word, doesn’t mention adopting a dog again unless Connor brings it up first and Addie stops adding new members to her family portraits. Connor is actually naïve enough to think that maybe the two have forgotten about it when he comes home from work late one night and is greeted by the sight of his daughter sweeping the hall.

Wielding a broom nearly twice as tall as she is, Addie is bent over a dustpan, flinging the broom this way and that, trying to collect dirt when, in reality, she’s actually just making a much bigger mess of the whole thing. Connor looks around to see if Oliver is witnessing this historic event—they can’t even get Addie to put her dirty clothes in the basket at the end of her bed—and spots his husband watching from the kitchen. At Connor’s expression, Oliver holds up his hands as if to say, “Don’t look at me. She did this all on her own.”

“Addie?” Connor asks, tossing his coat and briefcase on the hall bench.

“Yeah, Papa?” She doesn’t even look up, too focused on the task.

“What are you doing?” Connor reaches out to steady the broom, lest she clunk herself on the head with it, and crouches down so they are eye-to-eye.

“Sweepin’.”

“Yes, but why?”

Addie looks at him like he’s some sort of idiot. “’Cause it’s messy.” She bites her lip and looks back down at the floor. “And—and I wanted—I wanted to—”

When she falters, Connor prompts, “You wanted to?”

“Wanted to show I’ll help.” Addie turns back to him and, from the expression on her face, Connor just knows he’s lost. It’s over. He’s done. She’s got _that_ face and _those_ eyes and that’s it. That’s the ballgame. “If we—if we get a puppy, I’ll help and feed it and go on walks and be—be ‘sponsble.”

Connor looks from Addie’s hopeful expression to Oliver’s pleading one and all his excuses just crumble. Fuck it. They’re getting a dog.

Over the course of private discussions between Oliver and Connor and family meetings with all three Hampton-Walshes gathered around, they hash out breeds and concerns, read books and do research, visit shelters and peruse adoption websites. Until they find him. The subject line of Oliver’s email is simply “He’s The One” and, looking at the cute, chocolate-brown mutt smiling in his picture, Connor is inclined to agree. The two of them meet him in person during a lunch break to make sure he really is the dog for them, which he is, and make arrangements to pick him up on Saturday.

That Saturday morning, Addie is so excited she wakes them up at 5:30 by climbing in their bed, shaking them both, and declaring at the top of her little lungs, “We gots to get him today!” Connor has one foot almost to the floor, well trained after many a Christmas and Easter morning, but Oliver flat out refuses to get up. He simply pulls Addie under the covers between them and rubs her back as she proceeds to babble on-and-on in her excitement until eventually she exhausts herself and they both fall back asleep.

Looking over at the two of them, curled into each other and bundled, safe and warm, under the covers, Connor wishes his phone wasn’t charging across the room. This one of the mornings he wants to remember but he’s afraid to move and upset the scene. So he just lies there, watching over his family, and committing each of Addie’s small sniffles and Oliver’s deep breaths to memory.

When a more reasonable hour rolls around, Connor slips out of bed with a kiss to each forehead and starts downstairs to get breakfast going. Oliver wanders down a few minutes later with Addie in tow; her head resting on Oliver’s shoulder, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes with a fist.

“Mornin’ Papa,” Oliver says as he grabs the coffee mug out of Connor’s hand and Connor plucks Addie out of Oliver’s arms.

“Good morning Daddy,” Connor replies and pulls him in by the shirt for a kiss before turning to Addie. “Morning baby.” She mumbles something into his shoulder, which Connor imagines is some form of “Good morning,” and he kisses the crown of her head. “Want breakfast before we pick up Waldo?”

“Mickey pancakes.”

“Mickey pancakes it is.”

Breakfast is a subdued affair. Addie’s earlier excitement has simmered down to quiet nervousness and she picks at her food. Later, as they are driving to the shelter, Addie whispers so quietly they almost miss it under the radio, “What if Waldo doesn’t like me?”

“Impossible.” Oliver turns in his seat to catch her gaze. “Waldo is going to love you. You guys are going to be best friends.”

She fusses with her mitten and looks out the window. “What if he doesn’t play wif me?”

“He will, baby. You’ll see,” Connor calls back, watching her through the rearview mirror. Pulling up to the shelter, Addie sticks close to Oliver’s side as they walk in and are directed to a small area to the side of the larger waiting room. A volunteer stops by with some last minute paperwork and then, there he is.

Connor steps over to grab the leash and lead the dog over to where Oliver’s crouched down with Addie between his knees. Oliver holds out a hand and lets Waldo sniff, getting a little acclimated before asking Addie, “You want to pet him?” When she nods but doesn’t make a move, Oliver takes her hand in his and holds it out for the dog to sniff. “Hi, Waldo.”

“Hi, Waldo,” Addie repeats in a whisper. Waldo sniffs her hand and moves up her arm, taking a step towards her and she backs up, a little afraid. Oliver wraps an arm around her to hold her close and Connor holds the leash steady, keeping the dog at bay.

They exchange a look over Addie’s head; neither expected her to be afraid. They’d been sure not to get a large dog and she’s interacted with other dogs before. Should they have just brought the dog home? Would she be better meeting him at home? Were Connor’s concerns that she was too young on point? Was this whole thing a terrible mistake?

From the circle of Oliver’s arms, Addie reaches out her hand again for the dog to sniff and this time Waldo does her one better and licks her palm. She giggles and he does it again. She turns back to Oliver, “Daddy, Waldo’s bein’ funny.”

“He is,” Oliver replies, watching his daughter giggle as Connor loosens his hold on the leash a little and the dog comes a few steps closer to sniff and investigate. The three of them settle in for a little while, letting the dog get used to them and letting Addie get a little bit more comfortable before they pile back in the car and head home.

The second Waldo’s in the house, he pees all over their living room rug, which Addie thinks is the “Funniest thing ever, Papa!” Waldo then spends the rest of the afternoon hiding under the dining room table when he’s not chewing throw pillows and ignoring their attempts to play with him. Tucking her in that night, Addie reminds them quietly, “Knew he wasn’t gonna want to play wif me.”

“Waldo’s just getting used to us, Adda Girl,” Connor says, slipping her kangaroo under the covers. “We’ve got to give him some time.”

“So tomorrow he’s gonna play?”

“We’ll see tomorrow,” Oliver says, kissing her on the forehead.

Connor flips the light off as Oliver turns on her night-light and they slip out, leaving the door slightly ajar. Connor turns to head back down the stairs and steps his bare foot into a still warm puddle just outside Addie’s door. Oliver chokes back a laugh but quickly sobers at the look on Connor’s face and only says, “I’ll get the Resolve.”

“It could have been worse,” Oliver says as they’re cleaning the carpet. Connor just grunts in agreement. Yes, it could have been much worse, but that doesn’t make cleaning dog piss out of a carpet any easier.

The dog sniffing around his feet as he lazily rocks on Addie’s swing pulls Connor back to the present. He reaches down a hand to gently pet the dog’s head. “I don’t know what you’re expecting, buddy, but this is it,” Connor informs the dog. “The joys of urban living. Chinese food within walking distance, sirens blaring at all hours of the night, and yards the size of postage stamps.” The dog just looks at him. “You’re lucky we have a yard. You could be doing your business on a shrub outside a high-rise. Well, go on.” Connor waves a hand. “Go make or whatever.”

At that, Waldo wanders away to do another lap of the backyard. Connor watches the dog sniff through the flowers they planted and the garden they tried to grow before making his way back to Connor. “I know. I get it. It’s exciting being in a new house.” Connor gets out of the swing to sit on the ground, back resting against one of the support posts, and Waldo lays down between his spread knees.

“Hey, listen. Now that we’re alone,” Connor says to the dog, laying a hand down to absently pet Waldo’s coat. “I just wanted you to know that I’m not going to be the Fun One in the family. Those two in there.” He gestures with his head back towards the house, as if the dog can possibly understand what he’s saying. “Those two are going to be the fun ones. They are going to play games and go on walks and teach you tricks. You are going to like them better than me and that’s okay. I’ve accepted it. I just—I just want you to understand that it’s not about you.”

Connor takes a deep breath and wonders if he’s really going to bare his soul to a dog. “You see, when I was a kid, we had this dog. He was—he was the _best_ dog. I taught him how to fetch, and he could almost roll over, and my dad even let me take him camping with us once. And he was just—he was just the best dog.” Connor waits a moment, relaxing as he idly pets the dog. “But the thing was that he really wasn’t a very nice dog.

“He was mean, sometimes. Sometimes we would play and he’d start barking really mean and he’d snap at me and my sister. My mom and dad took him to lots of obedience lessons and classes. They had a trainer come out to the house to teach us all how to work with him. And, for a little while there, it seemed to get better. He seemed to get better.” Connor swallows down a lump in his throat, thankful that the only witness to this story won’t ever say anything about how he’s choking back tears.

“Then my sister had a birthday party. There—there were too many kids in the yard. It was too loud. Too much going on. I was trying to show one of her friends how I could get him to fetch and he wasn’t listening. I got so mad—he wasn’t listening to me. He was getting anxious and jumping around a lot, and then he just went a little—a little crazy I guess.” Connor’s tone turns thoughtful as he remembers. “Started barking like mad. It was high pitched and loud and—and scary. I’d never heard a dog bark like that before. He was snapping at everyone and growling at me. He crouched really low and was sort of shifting around. It was—we just didn’t know what to do. Mom and Dad came racing out. I’ve never seen my parents run so fast. Dad was like this blur, getting between me and the dog. Mom herded all of us into the house, and then they got the dog into the back of his truck and Dad just left. Mom came back in and made sure we were all okay, and then she started calling parents to come pick up their kids. She didn’t answer when we asked where Dad was.

“It turns out he was taking the dog back. Right then. No second chances. No more lessons. I didn’t—I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” He pauses in petting Waldo to press a hand over his eyes. “I was so mad about that for the longest time. They didn’t even let me say goodbye and he was getting so much better and he was _so close_ to rolling over. And—I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Connor resumes petting Waldo but waits until he knows his voice will be steady before continuing. “I always thought we could have taken him to more classes or different lessons or something but my parents just couldn’t trust him. He was too unpredictable. Too quick to anger. He just wasn’t a dog for a house with kids. They’d done the lessons and gotten trainers but they couldn’t trust him in the house with us anymore. And I can understand that now.

“You see, Waldo, you really hit the jackpot with those two in there. Honestly. They are going to spoil you rotten. All the treats and walks and toys and snausages you can imagine. Your entire life from now on is just going to be a cakewalk.” He pauses in petting and looks down at the dog, trying to catch his eye. “But if you ever hurt them or try to hurt them or do anything that is almost close to hurting them, you’re done. I’m taking you back and that’s it. There are no second chances and ‘He didn’t mean it’s and ‘He was just playing’ in this house. You fuck up and you’re out. I can live with some volunteer at the shelter calling me a fair-weather pet owner. That’s fine. No sweat off my back. I can’t live with anything hurting them. _Nothing_ hurts them. Do we understand each other?” Waldo just happily licks Connor’s palm, so he’s a little afraid that the full force of his warning didn’t quite land, but it will have to do. “Okay, good. Glad we’re clear.” And then, “Will you go make or something? We aren’t going in until you do your business. Now go.” Connor gives Waldo a gentle nudge up and leans back against the post.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me that story?”

Connor whips his head around. “Jesus, Oliver!” He watches Oliver walk down the steps and across the yard. Connor shifts over a little so they can share the limited back support of the post and Oliver sits down in the grass. “Give me a heart attack.”

Oliver gives a small apology and then wraps his arms around his knees and simply repeats, “Why didn’t you tell me?” Connor turns away to avoid the question and watch Waldo amble around the yard so Oliver gently presses again. “Why didn’t you tell me that your childhood dog attacked you and your sister and that’s why you didn’t want us to get a dog?”

“Well, when you put it _that_ way,” Connor tries to kid but it falls flat and Oliver doesn’t even acknowledge it. Oliver is well versed in almost all of Connor’s defense mechanisms by now so Connor tries another tactic, “There wasn’t an opportunity.”

“You and I had a half a dozen discussions about this before we really started looking and you never mentioned you had a dog growing up. In ten years together, you never mentioned you had a dog growing up.” Oliver’s tone isn’t defensive or accusatory; it’s simply _Oliver_. Persistence and understanding all rolled into one. “What’s up, Connor?”

“It’s just—it’s just a little embarrassing, I guess.” Connor looks over to see the “How” forming on Oliver’s lips so he continues. “It all happened when I was what? Like 9 or 10. It was decades ago now. It doesn’t make any sense that I’m still—”

“Afraid?”

“I’m not afraid of dogs,” Connor says defensively.

“Okay. Nervous?”

Connor nods in concession. He can live with being nervous around dogs. “Yeah, they make me nervous I guess.” They sit in silence for a moment, watching the dog sniff at their gardenias. “I just don’t want Addie to hate me."

"What?" Oliver’s head whips around at that. “She’s not going to hate you. She doesn’t hate you.”

“I know, but when my dad—” Connor pauses to swallow down the lump in his throat and find the words. “When my dad came back with an empty truck that day, he never explained what happened. He didn’t tell us where the dog was. He just came in the house, sat in his chair, and turned on the game. No conversation. No explanation. Nothing.” He picks at the blades of grass between his fingers. “Looking back on it, that’s when I started to, you know, resent him or whatever. I mean—there was always this distance or something between us, but that day—I was standing in the hall between the dining room and the kitchen. Just standing there, waiting for him to tell me where my dog was, and he looked over and just barked at me to either get in there and watch with him or go find something useful to do for once. And I turned my back on him and went up to my room and cried. I cried because I just knew my dog was gone and I didn’t get to say goodbye, and my dad didn’t care that I was upset and—” Connor stops to press hand over his eyes again. How embarrassing is it that he’s almost crying over this thing that happened so many years ago? He clears his throat and starts again. “Mom came in later and rubbed my back and explained what happened. She also said that Dad was really upset about the dog going back too and that my dad didn’t mean to snap at me. I said it was okay, but it wasn’t. It made me feel like my feelings were somehow less than his feelings, like I was less important than he was or something. I don’t know. None of this is making sense.” He hangs his head between his raised knees and grips his hair in his hands, pulling slightly at the strands, welcoming the small hiss of pain.

“It does make sense.” Oliver places a light arm around Connor’s shoulders and pulls him in close to Oliver’s side. “I get it. It does make sense.”

“I just, I don’t ever want to make her feel like that. I don’t want to ever make her feel small and less than.”

Oliver rubs one hand over Connor’s back and takes Connor’s hand in his with the other. He lets Connor’s comment hang in the air a breath before carefully saying, “You are not your father, Connor.”

Connor scoffs. “I know that.”

“Hey, let me finish here.” Oliver scolds with a smile. “I can’t promise that we won’t ever make her feel like that—”

“Well, _that’s_ not very reassuring.”

“Stop it. Let a man talk,” Oliver says as he nudges Connor’s shoulder with his own. “No promises we won’t ever make her feel like that. We aren’t perfect, and parents unknowingly do that kind of shit all the time. Your dad probably didn’t think anything of how he behaved, and your mom most likely didn’t even think what she was saying was wrong.” Connor opens his mouth to interrupt again but Oliver is quick to continue. “I’m not saying it’s right. I’m not defending them. I’m just saying that they probably didn’t know what they were doing was hurtful. Just like we could accidentally do something hurtful.”

“Again, not very reassuring.”

Oliver doesn’t even acknowledge the interruption this time and just keeps talking. “But you need to remember that we aren’t them. You aren’t your mother or father. You are you, and the two of us are different. We work very hard to have a different relationship with Addie than our parents had with us. We talk with her, not to her. When she comes to us about things, we listen. We value her opinion and she can tell we respect her.”

“Our four-year-old can tell we respect her?” Connor asks with disbelief.

“Hey. Give her some credit,” Oliver teases. “Kids are way more perceptive than people think. Have you ever watched her when who is that—that mom—the one with the husband who is always out of town—you know the one—” Oliver circles a finger in the air and closes his eyes, trying to conjure a face to go with the name.

“Theresa’s mom?”

“No. Not her. The other one.”

“Davey’s mom.”

“Yes! Her!” Oliver snaps his fingers and continues his original train of thought. “Anyways, watch Addie when Davey’s mom tries to talk to her. She may lack the verbiage for it but Adds can totally tell that that woman is talking down to her. She knows that we don’t do that.”

“Okay.” Connor looks down and Oliver’s hand held in his. “I still don’t get what that has to do with my story.”

“We would never do something so callous as sending Waldo away without talking with her about it.” Oliver squeezes Connor’s hand to pull his gaze back up. “Regardless of the circumstance, we would discuss it with her and make sure she understood and let her say goodbye. We wouldn’t ignore her feelings about it and leave her to grieve on her own. We are not your parents.”

“Okay.” Connor nods and quietly repeats, “We are not my parents.”

Connor leans his head on Oliver’s shoulder and Oliver wraps both arms around, pulling him close again and resting his head on Connor’s. They sit together in the stillness, watching Waldo dig up their gardenias across the yard. “When do we start obedience lessons?” Oliver asks absentmindedly.

“Monday afternoon.” They’re quiet again until Connor asks a moment later, “Should we stop him?”

Connor can feel Oliver shake his head. “It’s his first day. Let’s just let him be. Plus, those flowers were dead anyway. He’s actually saving us from having to dig them up ourselves.”

“Told you they were going to die.”

“Yes, yes, you’re always right,” Oliver deadpans and they are quiet again for a beat. “So do you want to tell me more about your dog?"

“What more is there?”

“Well, his name might be nice.”

Connor lets out a deep breath. “Well, my mom named him Thompson, which I thought was the worst name ever for a dog, but we just called him Tom. And he really was the best dog.”

Snuggled close to Oliver’s side and wrapped in his arms, Connor finds himself sharing stories of the summer he’d had a dog. Spending hours trying to Tom how to fetch in the backyard before giving in and asking his sister to help. The time Tom got sprayed by a skunk and he and Mom had to give him a tomato juice bath outside. Laying under a canopy of stars with his dad with Tom laid out between them. He’d forgotten all of the happy memories from that time, all of them buried deep under the trauma of that last day.

Connor smiles, watching Waldo across the yard, sitting proudly in the hole of their former flower patch, and says in a hushed undertone, “He’s going to be the best dog.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://ramblesandreblogs.tumblr.com/)


End file.
